


The Cottage, the Statue (TM)

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Cohabitation, Crowley's Statue (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Interior Decorating, M/M, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:20:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: More self-indulgent fluff, in which a book hoarder and a melodramatic minimalist with questionable taste in statues must come together in one cottage by the sea.





	The Cottage, the Statue (TM)

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm a doofus, I forgot to add a picture of the piece of art in question in this story:  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BfNWiUCFBN1  
> In the series only, this fine work of art is in Crowley's flat. It can be hard to catch; it's at one end of the long central hallway and pretty dark. The set designer said it "symbolizes Good and Evil wrestling with Evil triumphing."  
> Gaiman asked, "Are you sure they're _wrestling_?
> 
> The other end of the hall has the eagle from the church in the Nazi, 1941 scene that he apparently scavenged and kept.

They had assumed, logically enough, that the most difficult part of moving in together would be finding some way to combine Aziraphale’s Every Inch Must Contain a Book ~~hoarding~~ decorating sensibilities with Crowley’s desire for open space and minimum décor. As Crowley pointed out, “If you want to take every book you have, Angel, then we’ll need to buy a castle.” And castles, they had agreed, were too large, too drafty, and would take far too many miracles to maintain. Also, they drew in tourists, which were even worse than customers.

Yet, surprisingly, combining an angelic bookshop and a demonic flat proved fairly simple. Sofas and chairs, they found, did in fact exist that were both streamlined in design and suitably comfortable. Aziraphale’s many soft blankets (a number of which were discovered squirreled away in various spots throughout Crowley’s flat, apparently mysteriously) were kept in neat storage ottomans. Crowley didn’t mind bookshelves in every room as long as the free roaming piles of books were contained in Aziraphale’s library, which had a sofa long enough for a certain demon to receive pets while the angel read. The sunniest room was set aside for a selection of Crowley’s plants, and Aziraphale, under some duress, agreed not to pamper them. In return, he was allowed to pamper Crowley’s carefully tended front garden, which was, as a result, a suspicious riot of color in every season. Crowley's statue from the destroyed church was placed with honor in the garden (and yes, Aziraphale got a bit weepy over it), and his Mona Lisa sketch put in the darkest, safest room (ie the bedroom). With time and effort, the cottage’s main room – an open kitchen and living area – were clean, crisp, sunny, and filled with books and comfort. 

The bedroom took some experimentation. Aziraphale, still not given to proper sleep like Crowley was, initially considered the room Crowley’s domain and paid little attention to how it was decorated. As time passed, however, and Crowley became more and more indirectly insistent that he slept best with an angel in the bed, the stark grey and black began grating on Aziraphale’s nerves. If he was going to be the one awake and reading while being treated like the world’s warmest and largest teddy bear, he wanted to feel less like he was in a prison cell. 

Crowley said nothing about the new comforter or the side tables or the tartan blanket. He knew when to pick his battles, and being able to leech warmth all night was something he considered a win (certainly that's what he was doing, and not cuddling, because...because....fine, he was cuddling and saw no reason to lie about it).

Then there was The Statue

 

“It’s a showpiece,” Crowley argued as they stood next to it, currently shoved in their little entryway and awaiting its final destination. “It belongs in the living room.”

“It’s inappropriate,” Aziraphale argued, “it belongs…” he waved a plump hand. “Elsewhere.”

“Inappropriate?! It’s _art_ angel! When did you become such an art critic?” Crowley side-eyed him. Surely he wasn’t bothered by a little nudity. They’d survived ancient Greece and Rome, after all, to say nothing of Wales in the Middle Ages. In fact, he recalled some angelic bellyaching when the Catholics started covering all the penises with fig leaves, calling it an insult to the original artists.

Intense human modesty was fairly new, when one got right down to it, and thank goodness for it. It meant a great deal less time trying to decide on a sex and making the effort when everything was meant to be hidden away and private (Puritanical modesty had been, it so happens, one of Crowley's, but he knew Aziraphale had sneakily assisted; neither had anything to do with sexualizing breasts however, that was just ridiculous).

Aziraphale put his foot down. Literally. He stomped it. “Why do you want our guests to see a rather large statue symbolizing the two of us – and yes, it is, don’t fuss – attempting to kill each other?”

Crowley opened his mouth to argue for the merits of artistic nudes when what Aziraphale had said registered. His teeth clicked lightly when he closed it. He tilted his head to the side as a wave of deep, ridiculous affection (he was a demon, dammit) welled up within him. “That’s your problem with it?” he asked, feeling his lips quirk. “You don’t like that Good and Evil are fighting?”

“Well of course, my dear? What else would it be?” Aziraphale sniffed, his hard glance almost daring Crowley to bring up that Good was losing. “What couple,” and here Crowley barely managed to keep from grinning soppily and was very glad they’d just walked in, so the no sunglasses in the house rule hadn’t been applied, “wants art of them engaged in combat sitting around the house?”

“And the fact that they’re naked…?”

“Nude, darling, don’t be crude. And of course they are.” Aziraphale’s voice took on the tone that meant he was finding Crowley very trying, and also that the demon was somehow behind the times. “It’s _wrestling_.” 

Crowley bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Of _course_. of _course_ Aziraphale hadn’t bothered to watch wrestling since Greece. He never had been much for sports. Crowley reminded himself to introduce the angel to the horrors of modern American wrestling later.

“And,” he asked delicately, because he had to know, “you don’t think it looks like they’re doing anything _other_ than wrestling?”

To be fair, it had taken a few centuries and a couple of comments from movers for Crowley to realize they could be doing something other than wrestling. Such was the nature of a being that didn’t bother with having a sex most of the time. But once he’d seen it, he couldn’t _un_ see it.

Aziraphale frowned in that paternal way he had at times, and stared at the statue. He walked slowly around it, taking in the details: the straining muscles (which neither Crowley, a string bean, or Aziraphale, a cream puff, had ever had in real life), the wings, the exact positioning. “Well,” he said, thoughtfully, “I’m not certain it’s an entirely legal move. I believe breaking the opponent’s elbow is frowned upon. Is that what you meant?” Innocent eyes lifted to meet Crowley’s.

“Nope,” Crowley said gleefully, popping the p nicely.

“…I’ve no idea what you _want_ me to see, unless you’re insisting he’s setting a dislocated shoulder because that is entirely the wrong position to go about it.” Aziraphale huffed at him, crossing his arms, well, crossly.

Crowley couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, sharp as always, even as his own long arms (clearly of their own accord) wrapped around the angel with tender affection. He could hear another little huff of annoyance even as he buried his laughter in blond curls that were growing steadily wilder as Crowley kept accidentally-on-purpose distracting Aziraphale from going to the barber. “Ah, sweetheart,” he laughed, pressing a kiss there, “never change.”

The angel relaxed automatically into Crowley’s embrace, and Crowley luxuriated in the almost light-headed feeling of gooey joy he got every time Aziraphale cuddled into him. “You always complain when I don’t change enough,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Now you want it both ways.”

“I’m very difficult.”

“Yes, yes you are.” The angel slid his hands over Crowley’s and leaned against the demon’s chest. “Now whatever is it you’re trying to get me to see about this statue?”

The curls under Crowley’s lips danced as he let out an amused little huff of air before lifting his chin enough to look at the statue properly. “I’ve been told that it looks like they’re having sex.”

Aziraphale considered this. He tilted his head to the side. He hummed under his breath and then-

“Crowley!”

Crowley laughed again, refusing to let go as the angel wiggled in his hold. “Now, Angel-”

“That is-how very-that’s-”

“-it didn’t occur to me, either, but you know how humans are-”

“And you just had it sitting out in your flat?!”

“-I just thought it was a bit of fun, really, and would get under your skin because Good is losing.”

Aziraphale managed to turn around and glare up at him with Ultimate Angelic Censure.

Crowley grinned back, Demonically Unrepentant.

“Mortals have very dirty minds,” Crowley said.

“And you want it in our living room!”

“Only so you’ll get righteously annoyed every time you see it.”

Aziraphale snorted delicately. “It’s ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Beautiful workmanship, of course, but absolutely ridiculous.”

“I know.”

Warm hands settled on Crowley’s chest, and his angel looked up at him with infinite fondness. “How long have you been waiting for me to decide this is an image of carnal intercourse instead of wrestling?”

Crowley quirked a smile. “Didn’t know if you ever would, really. But if you did, I was ready to find it hilarious.”

“Rapscallion.” There was so much love in Aziraphale’s voice that it made Crowley miss a breath.

“Haven’t heard _that_ one in a while.” Crowley leaned down and pressed a kiss to that irresistible nose. “I could put it in with the plants?”

Aziraphale considered this. “Oh, very well. Then you can shock anyone you take in there.”

Crowley gave him a squeeze before pulling away and snapping his fingers, moving the heavy statue to the green room and going to set it just where he pleased.

Two weeks later, he walked in to find a small common fig tree in an ornamental pot, set on a stand exactly where the still-delicate leaves hid the exact meeting spot of Good and Evil, and his startled laugh sent the plants into shivers of confused terror.


End file.
